Medusa
by katyastark
Summary: Kota stands in the doorway. In front of him, there's a man hunched over a basin. His back is to him, but he can see the edges of a dish towel pressed to his face. "Stop! I'm dangerous." "You don't look half as dangerous as all the kids in the village say." "Looks can be deceiving." "They told me you had stone skin. And snakes in your hair with poisonous fangs."
1. Chapter 1

Kota remembers the first time the kids in the village mentioned the monster on the mountain. He was eight, and only just starting to venture out of the Pussycat's compound in an attempt to meet people his own age. He remembered thinking the kids were dumb as they tried to one-up each other with stories of a monster they'd surely never seen before.

"He's got fangs as long as my arms!"

"And one big eye. Like a cyclops."

"My older brother said that people disappear up there. The monster eats them!"

Kota is fifteen now, and he still doesn't believe in monsters—at least not in the mythical sense. He doesn't care about ghosts, or a cyclops, or witches that can turn a person to stone. Real monsters hurt people because they want to, not because they can. Real monsters are entirely human, and rarely give themselves away with just a glance—they're rarely as ugly on the outside as they are inside.

Kota tries to remember that now. He tells himself over and over again that there's nothing to fear. The Pussycats do this once a week, and none of them have ever been attacked. That's hard to believe when he passes the third hand painted sign on the path. They all say some variation of _keep out_ or _turn back now._ Fear spikes in Kotas gut, but he's no coward, and his aunt would never send him somewhere dangerous. He finally comes to a gate with one final warning. _Danger._

_It's just groceries. Drop them off, and go,_ he thinks as he stops just outside the fence.

The house beyond the fence doesn't look dangerous. It looks well-kept, if modest and rustic. The gate sticks and creaks so loudly when he pushes it open, he thinks that it most likely hasn't seen use in a very long time. Something about that makes him sad, that old melancholy feeling that used to plague him constantly resurfaces. Kota knows what it's like to be lonely—even loneliness that's self-imposed can hurt.

He approaches the house—there's smoke coming from the chimney, and lantern light coming from the windows. He knows someone lives here. Among the unkempt grass of the lawn—if you could call it that—are small, intricately carved statues. He trips over a squirrel, and lands on a rabbit, chipping off the ear. Kota feels the slightest bit of guilt when he looks in the rabbit's flat, stone eyes. He picks it and it's missing ear up and finds it to be much heavier than he anticipated. He passes by more statues, careful not to jostle them now. The closer he gets to the house the more numerous and varied the statues become—an assortment of deer, dogs, cats, and many, many birds. He can see now that all the windows in the house were open to take in the late August evening. It isn't nearly cool enough yet for that, in Kota's opinion, but to each their own. There's a stone kitten keeping watch over the porch, sitting silently on the railing, and Kota deposits the heavy, broken rabbit next to the cat. They both look so lifelike despite their grey visages.

"Hello?" Kota is starting to wonder why he's here, bothering some person who clearly wants to be alone. The only answer from inside the house is what sounds like shattering ceramic.

"Hello?" He calls again, drawing the last syllable out.

"Go away! C-can't you read the signs?"

The voice sounds terrified, as if Kota was the one who was supposed to be dangerous. He can't see the man from where he stands, just outside the rickety screen door of the cottage. It's sweltering hot out, but the heat coming from inside is far worse. The back of Kota's neck pricks with sweat.

"Mandalay sent me. I've got your groceries," he says, rustling the paper bags in his hand for emphasis.

"Leave it. You were supposed to leave it at the gate."

"That's a pretty crappy thank you." Kota, now slightly annoyed with this mysterious cryptid, pushed open the screen door with his foot.

"You've got perishables in here. It's too hot out to leave at the gate." Kota walks further into the house, his steps punctuated by the creaking wood beneath his sneakers. The house is uncomfortably hot, but somehow welcoming. Every inch of the walls is covered in photos, a smattering of sceneries and sunsets, people, and unremarkable objects like books or coffee mugs— in one photo there's a set of Russian nesting dolls.

There's another clatter from what he assumes is the kitchen. He stands in the doorway with the grocery bags. In front of him, there's a man hunched over a basin. His back is to him, but he can see the edges of a dish towel pressed to his face.

"Stop! I'm dangerous."

"You don't look half as dangerous as all the kids in the village say."

"Looks can be deceiving."

"They told me you had stone skin. And snakes in your hair with poisonous fangs. Even if you did, I've seen gnarlier mutations."

On the contrary, the man looks healthy. His arms are tanned and freckled with lean muscle. He looks the way a mountain-side recluse living in a log cabin ought to look. Like a capable lumberjack, or something. His hair is green and curly, and it runs down past his shoulders. If Kota squints, he can see how some people might mistake them for snakes.

"Please, leave the bags and go." The man doesn't turn around. He just hunches further, curling in on himself as if he's trying to hide.

"Did you make those statues outside?" Kota takes a few tentative steps forward and puts the bags on a table in the middle of the kitchen. The man sighs into the dish towel.

"In a manner of speaking," he says, sounding world weary.

"Cryptic. You gonna say thank you? I lugged these bags all the way up that trail."

"If I say it, will you go?" The man stands stiffly, determined not to move while Kota is around.

"You know, I'm not the most polite kid around, so if I'm telling you your attitude is shitty, that's saying a lot."

The man huffs a laugh. It's light and airy, even caught in the dish towel.

"What?" Kota snapped, the last of his patience hanging by a thread.

"You remind me of someone."

"Someone awesome, I hope."

"Yes, someone very awesome." Kota can't be sure, but he thinks the man's voice breaks once or twice. Kota feels the slightest bit uncomfortable. This has to be the oddest moment of his life.

"Do you want me to help you sweep that up?" Kota gestured to the broken ceramic on the floor—the remnants of a bowl, he thinks—and then he stops gesturing because the man hasn't looked in his direction once. He wonders why. Why is he clutching that dirty towel to his face like his life depends on it?

"No, thank you."

"What's with the towel?" Kota blurts out. The man tenses, and whispers so low that Kota can barely hear it over the fire in the corner of the kitchen.

"I'm a monster."

Koda grimaces, not liking the feeling of guilt and pity twisting in his gut. He's not good at emotions. Especially not other people's emotions. He blurts out the only reassuring thing that pops in his head.

"I've seen real monsters in action. You don't seem like a monster to me." When the man says nothing, Kota turns to leave. Before he's out the screen door, he says, "The Pussycats are gone for the next two weeks. I'm bringing your groceries again on Friday."

"You can leave them on the porch."

"Not a chance."


	2. Chapter 2

Katsuki runs his hands down his face, exhausted. A yakuza group decided to rear its ugly head recently, and Katsuki's worked two doubles this week to cover the uptick in crime. His exhaustion is only compounded by the fact that he hasn't had a letter from Deku in over a month. This happens sometimes, but he finds himself feeling out of place and antsy when he hasn't heard from him in a while. Even from so far away, Deku still grounds him. He has a stack of photos on his desk at home that he's so desperate to send it feels like they're burning a hole in the tabletop.

This is what they do. This is what their friendship has been reduced to over the years. Katsuki's broken himself down into letters, photos, and the occasional gift on birthdays and holidays. Maybe Deku will call him on those days, too, but Katsuki's learned not to hold his breath waiting for that.

"Mail call!"

This happens every morning. He has Deku send his letters to his agency because he's here more than he's at home usually. He knows the mail woman by name, and she has a vested interest in constantly pestering him about Deku. She's nosy, and far too cheery for Katsuki's liking, but he can't help but anticipate her arrival strictly because of what she brings with her.

"Morning, Ground Zero! Looks like you've got three letters today! Lots of mailing errors. Two return to senders. No wonder it's been a while."

"Figures," he mutters, unwilling to show how relieved he is. Still, he feels weeks old tension melt away from him, a tight knot of unease uncoiling in his chest the moment the thick envelopes are placed in his waiting hands.

"The look on your face when I give you these really keeps me going. Say hello from me."

Katsuki can feel his cheeks burning. There's no _look. _It's just Deku. Stupid Deku who won't come out of hiding, who won't let Katsuki visit. Deku who breaks himself down into letters and pictures and the occasional phone call for Katsuki to devour and still never feel sated. It's been seven years of this, and it never gets any easier.

Katsuki's about to announce that he's going on break, just to be able to skim one letter, to feel the indents in the paper where Deku's pen pressed ink into the page, to look at the familiar, hasty scrawl, when crusty old Endeavor stomps into the room.

"Mandatory agency-wide meeting in ten minutes. No exceptions."

Motherfucker. Katsuki really needs to open his own agency.

—

Izuku finds a mostly-clean shirt to tie around his head for when the boy inevitably comes back. He foolishly left his blindfold at his mother's house, more to make a point to himself than anything. It was a statement, as if to say _I won't ever need this anymore. _Izuku is great at lying to himself.

It's Friday again and Izuku's stomach is in knots about it. He lays on the porch in stressed anticipation, and the kitten, heavy as she is, lays on his chest—a small comfort. Izuku can't help but stroke the grooves of frozen fur along her back. Tama was his first living statue, and he can't make himself let her go. She's been with him for over twenty years now, and the guilt of what he did—albeit by accident—never ebbs.

She was a gift for his fourth birthday. So many memories of that age are fuzzy for him, but he remembers his birthday clear as day. He remembers insisting that he didn't need a party or presents because he was going to get his Quirk for his birthday. He remembers how _excited _he was, and it makes him feel nauseous. His Quirk is the worst thing that ever happened to him. His Quirk is the reason he's out here in the middle of nowhere with no electricity. It's the reason the kitten on his chest never got to have any kind of life. It's the reason he's locked himself away, and lives in constant fear of interacting with people.

He heaves a long, tired sigh and covers his face with the old shirt, and allows the dwindling sunset and August heat to lull him to rest.

—

Kota finds him on the porch, that cat statue on his chest, as if it were a real animal perching atop him for a nap. His face is covered again, and Kota can only assume it's intentional if their first meeting was any indication. Kota wonders what he looks like, if his face really is as monstrous as everyone believes. He sets the bag of groceries down on the porch with a pointed thud, hoping to rouse the man. No such luck—he doesn't move even a little. Kota clears his throat awkwardly, and briefly considers finding a long stick to poke him with.

"Um, hello," he says, gruff and unsure, as he is with most people. The man jolts awake, one hand flying to the shirt on his face, and the other cradling the statue on his chest. Kota waits for him to get his bearings.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

"It's fine," he says, the words blowing out in a throaty sigh, like he can't catch his breath. "My groceries?"

"On the porch," Kota says, gesturing to the bag even though the man obviously can't see him. When he realizes he's doing it, he quickly brings his hands back down to rest at his sides, feeling like an idiot.

"Thank you. Um, usually Mandalay brings my mail, too. Have any letters come for me?"

He's still pressing that shirt into his face, so his words are muffled slightly. Kota can tell he's just as bad at talking to people as Kota is, and that somehow makes him feel a bit more confident. He sits on the porch, still a healthy distance away from the man.

"No mail. I checked. What's your name?"

The man doesn't respond right away. He fiddles with the shirt, tying a haphazard knot at the back of his head so he doesn't have to hold it. It reveals his mouth—a normal, human mouth, no fangs to speak of—and just a bit of freckled cheeks. The gesture makes Kota feel as if he's at least committed to speaking with him.

"Look, it's not safe for you to be here. It doesn't matter what my name is because you really shouldn't be speaking to me at all."

Kota rolls his eyes, a bad habit he picked up when he was younger, and forced to mingle with heroes. He's grateful the man can't see it. He barrels on.

"I'm Kota Izumi. Why are you wearing a shirt on your face like an idiot?"

For a moment, the man's mouth forms an _o,_ and Kota's sure that, if he could see the rest of his face, his eyes would be wide with surprise. It curves into a small smile soon after the shock has worn off, and Kota reaffirms that his teeth are perfectly plain, canines just as dull as his own. Something like a laugh falls out of his mouth, like he didn't plan to do it.

"I'm Midoriya Izuku."

"And the shirt?"

"My Quirk is dangerous. My eyes—my _eye,"_ he says, like he's correcting himself, and Kota wonders for a moment if he actually _is _a cyclops. It's probably rude to ask. "Well, if you look at my eye, this will happen."

Midoriya holds the cat statue a bit higher, a frown on display.

"This is—was—Tama. My cat."

"So, these aren't statues," Kota says, feeling a bit ill at the sheer amount of stone corpses littering the property. He meant to phrase it as a question, but he failed. It sounds blunt and accusatory, and Kota winces when the words leave his mouth. Midoriya nods, solemn.

"And you can't reverse it?"

"No," he says, the word clipped and raw with emotion, and Kota can practically see the remorse behind the shirt. He can imagine this person spending days hunched over a lifeless statue, willing it back into existence. He can imagine the lonely life someone like Midoriya has led. So lonely that sequestering yourself in the mountains isn't a big deal.

"Well, that's not your fault. That doesn't make you a monster."

Kota can't remember the last time he's ever said something so kind. He's usually surly at best, and an angry little shit at worst, but his counselor told him that was because he pushes people away out of a fear of losing people. Basically, he's a lonely little shit with abandonment issues. Kota can relate to loneliness, and this guy must be the loneliest sap in the world.

"That doesn't make it safe for people to be around me."

"You've got a shirt glued to your face. I think I'm safe. You any good at math?"

"When I can see the numbers," he says, and it sounds like he's attempting to make a sarcastic joke. Kota is both surprised and smug that his impromptu subject change worked.

"Good. I didn't carry my backpack up here for my health. Whip off that shitty blindfold and help me."

Midoriya's hands fly with impressive speed towards his face, pressing into the shirt.

"Are you _crazy?"_

"I'm joking," Kota deadpans, and watches as that slowly dawns on Midoriya. His shoulders slowly slacken, his hands fall down to his lap again. His shoulders shake, and Kota's pleased to have made him laugh. Then, he realizes that there are tiny rivulets of moisture running down his face. He's crying, and Kota wants to melt into the ground, or run screaming away from his blatant emotions.

"Um, fuck, oh shit," he mumbles, completely unaware of what he's supposed to do now. Something about Midoriya is so guarded, so fragile, that Kota can't help but want to help him. He never figured himself for a person with a hero complex, but there it was.

Midoriya presses his hands into the shirt, presumably to wipe up his tears—and Kota thinks _built in tissue, how convenient, _only a tad hysterically.

"I'm a crybaby, sorry. I just—I can't remember the last time I laughed."

Kota feels something dark and sticky in the pit of his stomach, a heady mix of pity, empathy, and determination to do something about the sad person beside him.


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm going to be a journalist."

"When did you decide that?" Midoriya asks evenly. Kota wonders why they sit on the porch instead of going inside the cottage. This is the fifth time he's come to visit, and he's never been inside—not since the first time. It's not like Midoriya is able to enjoy the view. A sunset in the mountains is nothing to scoff at. He stares out at the expanse of yellow-green grasses, the smattering of wildflowers in the clearing, as he considers Midoriya's question.

"Not sure. I think, maybe, after my parents died."

He was too young to even think about the future when they died, but he grew up wanting the world to know his pain—to know that there was more to heroes and villains than rose-tinted ideals and choreographed fight sequences.

There's a short pause in conversation as Kota's words sink in. That always happens. He's used to it. At least, with Midoriya and his endless supply of shirt blindfolds, he won't have to see his pitying gaze.

"I'm sorry that happened to you."

"You're not going to ask how they died? Or how old I was?"

"I figured you'd tell me if you wanted to," Midoriya says, a placid smile visible on his face. Kota scoffs at his kindness.

"You could never be a journalist. You're too nice."

"I used to want to be a hero, before all this." He gestures vaguely at his face, a red shirt obscuring his eyes today. Kota scoffs again.

"I don't like heroes much."

"Why's that?"

"My parents were heroes and they died. My aunt and her friends are heroes, and they could die any second. I think they're blinded—forgive my phrasing—by the idea of heroism, and so is everyone else. They don't need to die, and people definitely didn't need to tell me it was an honor they died when I was only five years old."

"I'm sorry that happened to you."

Kota grimaces, slightly annoyed by the repetitive sympathy. It makes his skin itch, and he lashes out.

"I'm sorry you live in the middle of nowhere with a shirt on your face."

"I only have a shirt on my face when you're here. Otherwise, I get to be my normal self."

Kota frowns, feeling like that was a jab at him. He knows Midoriya is secretly thrilled to have someone to talk to. Mandalay is all for it, too. She's not sly about her needling comments that Kota make some friends.

"Are you a cyclops?"

"Very subtle." Midoriya laughs self-consciously, but offers no straight answer.

"I can't be a journalist if I don't ask the tough questions."

"I'm not a cyclops. I don't have fangs. Snakes freak me out. What other rumors are there about me?" Midoriya says casually, ticking off old myths about him on his fingers.

"I think you covered them all, but you said you have one eye."

"That's true."

Midoriya isn't what Kota would call _chatty, _but this is the first time he's deliberately given nothing away. Kota presses the issue, knowing he'll have a hell of a story to tell.

"But you're not a cyclops."

"No." The word is clipped, a warning—just like all the signs on the trail up to his cabin. _Go no further._ Kota resolutely ignores it.

"So what happened to your other eye?"

"It's gone."

"Where'd it go?"

"For a walk down the trail."

"Midoriya," he snaps, just shy of pouting. Midoriya sigh, his shoulders dropping. His next words are spoken with zero inflection.

"I took it out. With scissors when I was sixteen. I wanted to get rid of the other one but it hurt too much. My body literally wouldn't let me do it."

"You… what?"

"You wanted to ask the tough questions. You have to be prepared for tough answers."

—

Izuku remembers it all. Every sound, every sensation. He remembers staring at himself in the mirror, wishing his Quirk worked on him like the actual myth of Medusa. He wished he could turn himself to stone, so no one else would have to suffer.

He remembers the scissors he pocketed from his mom's sewing box—the reassuring weight of them in his palm, the sharp, glinting metal of the blades. He remembers holding the point up to his eyelid, squeezing them shut in morbid anticipation, his breath ragged and panicked, but there was no turning back once Izuku made up his mind.

The pain was excruciating. It brought him to his knees in an instant, a howl scraping from his throat unbidden. He couldn't keep a hold on the scissors, couldn't open his remaining eye to find them on the bathroom floor.

When his mother found him, screeching and wailing, convulsing from the pain, the only words he'd said—_screamed,_ he screamed at his poor, sweet mother—were, "Take the other one. Hurry!"

Izuku recounts the entire sordid tale for Kota, but only because he pushed him for the information. Part of Izuku thinks he tells him so Kota will understand how dangerous he really is. The monster on the mountain may not be physically as scary as everyone believes, but he's still a monster.

"I'm sorry that happened to you," Kota mumbles, clearly put off. Izuku's sure that if he could see Kota—if he knew what he looked like—his face would be pinched in guilt.

"I did it to myself."

"Why, though?"

"I was… scared. I had just started high school, and my friend—my friend who always kept me safe from bullies—wasn't around anymore. Something bad happened."

"They hurt you?"

Izuku shrugged, wringing his hands in his lap. It wasn't that they hurt him. He'd been kicked around a lot. He was used to that. He wrestles with himself; with how much he should say—how best to say it.

"My homeroom had a class pet," he begins, trailing off. "A guinea pig. There was a rumor going around that I was actually Quirkless—mostly because I never talked about my Quirk—and everyone said I wore a blindfold for attention."

"That's stupid."

"That's high school."

Kota doesn't say anything else, and Izuku assumes he's waiting for him to continue. He isn't sure why the silence spurs him on.

"One of the bigger bullies grabbed me one day, maybe a month into the first semester. He took off my blindfold and shoved my face against the cage. He said _show me your Quirk and I'll let you go."_

"And you did it?"

Izuku remembers. He remembers the bars of the cage poking into his skin, and the smell of the wood flakes, and the little grunting noises the guinea pig made, obviously terrified. Izuku cried and begged, but the hands on his neck gripped harder, nails digging into his flesh like claws. The gathering students jeered at him, banging their hands on desks, laughing and shrieking at his expense.

He remembers opening his eyes, seeing his classroom for the first time. It looked too plain to be a place that caused him so much grief.

"Nineteen people died because they wouldn't just leave me alone."

Izuku feels the shame well up inside him. His lip wobbles and his throat closes up and he hates himself for remembering the vindictive pleasure he felt when he looked his tormentors in the eye for the first and last time. He refrains from telling Kota how addictive it was—the triumph he felt knowing he'd never be bothered by that boy again. He didn't stab his eye out because he felt guilty. He took it out because he felt _justified._ He didn't trust himself anymore.

—

"By now, you've heard about the yakuza scum running around," Endeavor barks, his stupid flaming beard flaring up. Katsuki crosses his arms, unimpressed with the display. Endeavor is washed up, and it's only a matter of time before Katsuki topples his rating. Detective Tsukauchi takes a blatant step to the left to avoid the flames, doing his best to appear friendly and professional.

"Some of you may have been involved with cases concerning Trigger, the new Quirk enhancing drug on the black market," Tsukauchi says, and recent case files appear on the screen behind him. One picture shows one of Katsuki's takedowns from the previous week. Even with the drug, the extra was useless.

"Fat Gum and his agency are still working to narrow down the distribution line, but they stumbled upon something far more alarming." The detective pushes a button, and the slide changes. Pictures of a small, pin-like bullet and a special gun full up the screen.

"Apparently, there's a companion drug—one that erases Quirks."

Katsuki perks up, suddenly on high-alert, one word bouncing around his head.

_Deku._

"Permanent erasure?" He blurts out. Endeavor glares at the unwelcome interruption. Katsuki glares back, unafraid.

"No, Ground Zero. This strain is only temporary. Like Trigger, it only works anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour, but we have reason to believe that won't be the case for long."

Even if it's only temporary, it's something. Tsukauchi goes on and on about Nighteye's agency, and the task force they're putting together to find the people responsible. Katsuki's only half-listening. The other half of him is thinking about Deku, about turning up at his cabin in the mountains with that drug in hand.

He thinks about seeing his eyes again for the first time in twenty years. He thinks about the promise he made him so long ago, as he sat listlessly in his small room in the psych ward.

_When I'm a hero, Deku, I'll do everything I can to fix this._

He remembers removing his blindfold, remembers seeing exactly what Deku did to himself. A jagged slash in irritated, pink skin, his eyelid half-gone. He remembers pressing his face into Deku's hair, his lips on his forehead, brushing against his cheeks, and finally, the lightest kiss on his remaining eye. He promised himself he'd see his bright green eyes at least once more in his lifetime. Even if it kills him.


	4. Chapter 4

_Kacchan,_

_It's July 15th, so you know what that means! Heh, kidding. I didn't do anything this year, unless laying on the porch and writing to you counts. My caretakers put a few party poppers in my groceries this week, and they got me a funny little card, but I never did anything with them. I got a letter yesterday from the commission, and it said I should be getting a gift from my mom sometime soon. Do you know what it could be? It can't be big, or perishable, so I really have no clue. I've been whiling away my time imagining how she managed to strong arm the commission into sending me anything. You know how they are._

_Anyway, thank you for telling me what you could of your most recent mission! I think the worst thing about being out here is that I can't keep track of your meteoric rise through the ranks on my own, but know that I'm always thinking of you and cheering you on just like I did when we were kids. I'll never stop. Please, tell me more when you can! At least I know you'll never temper the story with something like modesty. I feel special getting the details straight from the source! Who needs the news with a friend like you?_

_I miss you, Kacchan, and I hope this letter finds you well and strong and healthy. I've attached some photos this time, so you know I'm doing well, too. I think my caretakers might be the only people in the whole world who still buy disposable cameras, but I'm glad they do. They gave me a whole bunch this time, so hopefully I can send you more pictures soon, even if they lack variety._

_I love the ones you sent in your last letter. My favorite is the one with you and your hero friends. They look so cool, and the way you describe them tells me how fond you are of them, no matter how hard you try to hide it. I'm glad you have so many good people in your life. I know you'll scoff if I say "don't work too hard," so I'll say this instead: don't forget to have fun._

_And if you could, maybe visit my mom soon? And your parents! Don't think she doesn't write to me that you've been neglecting them. Hug everyone for me._

_All my love,_

_Deku _

Katsuki reads the first letter too many times to count. Deku obviously lied about the party poppers because when Katsuki finally got home from work and opened the letter, he found it riddled with glitter and confetti. Not even the mess it made on his carpet could distract him from the urgent need to hear from him.

Deku is odd about his birthdays. He treats it like a day he has to work hard to make Katsuki happy, when it should be the other way around. He knows that's why there's so many photos. If only Deku knew how he spends every July 15th, facedown in his living room in a puddle of photos and lined paper, rereading everything Deku's ever sent him until he passes out.

Deku's birthday is the only day out of the year that Katsuki religiously takes off because he knows if he were to work, or attempt to be a functioning adult that day, he'd fail miserably. It's the only day he really lets himself _feel _it—the bone-deep need to see him, the aching sense of loss that he can only call grief, how lost he feels without him when he should be here, right next to Katsuki. It's not July 15th anymore and he's not allowed to dwell, so Katsuki folds up the letter and presses on to the next. This one is dated August 19th.

_Kacchan,_

_Your silence is deafening, and since I have no way to contact you without passing everything through the commission, I'm just going to assume it isn't because you've forgotten about me, and it's just that someone at the commission couldn't read my handwriting on the address again. You'd think they'd know where all these letters ought to go after so many years! Bureaucrats and office jockeys, what can you do?_

_Anyway, I'm just going to write as if you got my previous letter, and those pictures. I hope you get them soon! I'll be so mad if they lost the pictures. I can almost hear you laughing as you imagine my "angry kitten scowl" while reading this. Do you feel like that when you write your letters? Like you know exactly how I'll react as you're printing the words on the page? That's my favorite part of letter writing. I definitely don't do it because I have a lot to say. It's really hard trying to find something interesting to share with you since my days are pretty much the same, but I can already imagine you saying, "I don't give a fuck if you're bored! I just want to hear from you!"_

_I hope you can imagine me laughing. And I imagine you gasping when you realize I wrote out a curse word just to imitate you. Trust me, I felt dirty and wrong doing it, and it won't happen again. I know you toss out F-bombs (Heh, THAT should've been your hero name, Kacchan! Why didn't we think of that?) like they don't cost you anything, but even in total obscurity, where no one will hear me, I can't make myself cuss. Too goody-goody, I guess._

_I imagine you a lot, Kacchan. It seems like everything I do is accompanied by your running commentary (so loud, so angry). It's ingrained in me. I can only hope I've made that kind of impression on you, too._

_Well, I've run out of things to ramble about, unless you want to read about my never ending wish for some air-con. Honestly, I think I'm sweatier than you at the moment. Imagine me sweating, I guess._

_Write soon, okay?_

_All my love,_

_The sweatiest Deku in the universe_

Katsuki laughs at the sign off. He hates how easily he forgets that Deku is funny. Katsuki's poor, battered heart swoops and swells until it's exhausted him. He needed these. Two months without a word is two months too long. Katsuki folds the letter neatly. This one may be one of his new favorites. He keeps all of Deku's correspondence meticulously, saving the envelopes and preserving the letter in filmy plastic. It's a routine he's come to love in the last few years. It speaks to how much he cares for Deku. If he can't be with him—holding him, making sure he knows how much he cares—he can at least make sure his words are taken care of. It's all they have between them, after all. That, and photos. Katsuki doesn't think he can handle looking through them at the moment, so he doesn't. Instead, he starts writing.

—

For once, when Kota checks the PO Box for Midoriya's mail, there's something there. A big something. The envelope bulges from the contents inside. Kota smiles at the weighty letter. Midoriya asks him every time he visits if he checked for his mail. Whoever's writing to him must be important. Then again, Kota himself would probably be excited about the mail, too, if he lived like Midoriya.

When he gets to Midoriya's cottage, he finds him on the porch again, a black shirt on his face. He looks ominous sitting there, faceless, waiting for him. From far away, he understands why the kid's brave enough to get past the signs and sneak a peek at him are terrified.

"Hi, Kota," Midoriya says, placid as ever just before he gets to the porch.

"How do you know it's me? Could've been my aunt, for all you know."

Midoriya laughs. It's nice how easily he does it lately. He's come a long way from that first night, when he cried because he couldn't believe he was laughing again. It's early September now, and the air is much cooler as the sun sets.

"Footsteps. You walk like you don't care where you're going. Plus, you're the only one who goes past the gate."

"Anyway, you got a damn novel in the mail. Here," he says, putting his grocery bags on the porch to rifle through them until he finds the envelope. Midoriya waits with an open palm extended in his direction. He puts it in his hand, and Midoriya smiles with the sheer weight of it. Seriously, it's heavy enough to beat someone to death with it, were he so inclined.

Midoriya grips the envelope almost lovingly. Kota wants to make fun of him when he presses it to his chest, like some desperate girl in a romantic comedy, but he can't find it in him to be so mean. It clearly means a lot to him, and Midoriya obviously means a lot to whoever wrote it.

"Um, Kota, do you think we could hang out tomorrow instead? I… I really need my eye right now. Sorry."

Kota frowns, but only because he knows Midoriya will never see it. Truth be told, the time he spends on Midoriya's porch is easily the highlight of his week. He looks forward to it.

"That's fine. Will you tell me about it? Unless it's a love letter, or something. I don't wanna hear about mushy shit."

Another laugh. He's never seen Midoriya so giddy.

"I'll tell you about him tomorrow. It's only fair. I plan on telling him all about you."

—

_Sweaty ass Deku,_

_For the record, I don't fucking sweat that much. Are you forgetting me already? Also, I know the assholes at the commission are reading this, so I'd like to formally say FUCK THEM for screwing up my goddamn address. Your handwriting is absolute shit, but they should really have my address memorized by now._

_Other than being a sweaty mess, how are you? I miss you so goddamn much. I'm not going to waste ink by waxing poetic about how much I'd like to visit because I know you won't let me, so I'll just say this: when I figure out how to get you back home, I'm going to kick you in the ass once for every birthday you made me miss. That's seven ass kickings, nerd. I'll be pissed if we have to make it eight._

_Did you like the sweater your mom made you? I hope it got there before this letter because if not, I've ruined the surprise. She knit me one, too, and made me promise to wear it once it gets a bit cooler. She misses you. We all fucking miss you, asshole._

_I like what you said in your letter. That thing about knowing exactly how I'll react to your words. I feel like that, too. You're always in my head, mumbling about shit that doesn't matter. It keeps me sane. I told Kirishima about the F-Bomb thing (Who knew you could be so funny? How did I forget that about you?), and he laughed for a solid fifteen minutes, before changing my name in the group chat. It's a hit with the idiots, so it looks like it's going to stick. Thanks a lot._

_They all say hey, and happy belated birthday. They say they can tell when I get a letter from you just by the way I walk—head held higher, shoulders up, chest puffed out. They say I smile more, and complain less._

_I hope my letters make you feel like that, too. (They do. I know this. I'm Bakugo fucking Katsuki.) I noticed you've started signing off with "all my love." Pretty presumptuous of you, don't you think? I'm kidding. Don't stop. But in the spirit of one-upping you, I'll change it up, too._

_With everything I am,_

_F-Bomb_


	5. Chapter 5

"Back so soon?" His aunt inquires the second he's through the door. Kota grunts because he's in a bit of a mood, and talking seems like too much. He doesn't _want_ to be upset that Midoriya booted him out. He understands. Sometimes, Kota feels bad for taking up Midoriya's time. It's clear that the only reason he lives alone on the edge of the Pussycats' property is because he wants to be able to see. Kota can't help but feel a bit burdensome when they sit on the porch together. It's a slippery slope, their friendship.

"Everything okay? Something wrong with Midoriya?"

Kota considers shutting down and sequestering himself in his room, but he promised himself he'd limit his sulking. Maybe he ought to try talking.

"He got a letter. Wanted some time with his eyes—eye."

"He really only has one eye? I thought that was a rumor." Her eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up into her bangs, and it's right then that Kota realizes that he's the only person in the whole village to actually speak with Midoriya. It sends his sullen thoughts screeching to a halt. Midoriya has been their charge for _seven _years.

"You've never talked to him?" Kota is, perhaps, disproportionately outraged, but it's honestly so ridiculous. His aunt looks sad for a moment, maybe a bit guilty. She shrugs, but the motion is heavy.

"The commission picked us because of my Quirk—and Search. They wanted to make sure we never had to look at him."

"That's… so fucked up."

Everyone knows the hero commission is shady and secretive on some level, but Kota's never felt that he actually hated the organization until now. Midoriya already hates himself enough to yank his eye out. He doesn't deserve to be treated like a criminal. Though, technically, he is one.

"Watch your mouth, kid. It _is _messed up, and we never planned on honoring those rules, but he didn't want to interact with us."

Kota grunts, suddenly over talking things out. Rage simmers under his skin, and chokes him, lodged like a stone in his throat. Kota's never been able to come to terms with just how unfair life can be. He's always had a chip on his shoulder about losing his parents so young, but even something as monumental as that pales in comparison to the injustice of everything that's happened to Midoriya, who, by all accounts, is a paragon of kindness that's almost disgustingly innocent.

"I'm going back tomorrow," he mumbles, jaw tight. He's ready to take himself and his shitty mood off to his room, but his aunt stops him.

"Could you give him these?" She rifles around in a cupboard for a paper sack. Kota's curiosity gets the better of him, and peeks inside to find ten disposable cameras.

"They still make these?" Kota grimaces at the old world relic. He's never actually seen one in person. Briefly, the image of the inside of Midoriya's cottage pops into his head. The wall of pictures.

"There's one store in the city that still sells them. Don't tell him that, though. They're the only things he's ever asked us for, and if he knows how difficult they are to get he'll stop."

"Yeah, that sounds like him. Idiot," he adds, but not unkindly. "I'll make sure he gets them."

Kota's not sure what possesses him to do so, but he takes one for himself, and snaps a photo of himself, scowling in his dimly lit room. He checks the dial at the top of the camera—twenty four frames left.

—

_With everything I am…_

Izuku lays on his threadbare sofa, the light September wind ruffling his hair from the open windows, as he cradles the letter to his chest like it's the most precious thing he owns. The ache he feels is familiar. Izuku would never call Kacchan emotional—at least not in the weepy, romantic sense that Izuku tends to be—but his letters are so heartfelt. They never talked like this when they were younger—when they were _together, _and Izuku sorely regrets not being more forthcoming with his own lovestruck feelings back then.

He never dared to dream that Kacchan might feel the same way. At least, not until it was too late. By the time he realized, Kacchan was busy with school, and Izuku was all but a prisoner in the extended stay psych ward after the incident—but the proof is here, in writing. Something about the distance makes speaking from the heart easier, and that might be the only thing his seven year stay in obscurity has given him that he'd thank anyone for. He reads the letter until he can almost recite it from memory, and falls asleep with Kacchan's words, curses and all, bouncing around in his head.

—

Despite sleeping on the couch, Izuku wakes feeling light and well-rested. Not only is he riding an emotional Kacchan-fueled high, but today might be the first day he doesn't wake up sweating. Fall is a magical time of year, especially for someone without air conditioning. Kota should be here some time today, so Izuku decides to bake bread. It's cool enough that the oven won't make the whole of the cottage unbearable, and Izuku feels like he owes Kota something of an apology for kicking him out yesterday. He doesn't have much to give, but he's an adequate baker after picking it up as a boredom hobby about five years ago.

Unfortunately, Izuku is elbow deep in sticky dough when he hears the gate rattle. He's thankful that Kota has a habit of slamming it—it gives him adequate time to hide his eye. He has just enough time to get the dough off and put a hand towel over his face before Kota calls from the porch. This is the first time since they've met that he hasn't been out there waiting for him.

"Midoriya?"

"You can come in," he calls, momentarily caught between attempting to go greet him at the door, and hiding, like he did the first time he was in the house. Before he can make a decision, the screen door opens and shuts. Izuku is struck with a wave of frustration. He feels utterly useless without his eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"Baking bread. Um, I was trying to get this done before you came."

"Hmm. Keep going. I'll stay out of your eye line."

Having someone around while his eye is uncovered is strictly against the rules he's set for himself. The thought of what he could do, just by accident, fills him with sick unease.

"I— That's—"

"It'll be fine," Kota says, and his tone implicitly rings with trust. The realization fills him with warmth. Kota shouldn't trust him—not after what he told him. He sighs, giving in because if he waits much longer he'll have to scrap his dough.

"What will you do?"

"Snoop around."

Izuku has no idea what Kota looks like, but he knows he's smirking. He laughs.

"Not much to see, unfortunately."

Kota doesn't say anything else, but he can hear his footsteps on the rickety wood floor. Though it terrifies him, Izuku removes the towel from his face, and sets to kneading his dough again.

"All this needs is some red string, and you'd have a sick murder board," Kota says absently. Of course, he's looking at the picture wall. It's really the only thing to see in his meager living quarters. "Is this angry blond your boyfriend?"

"That's Kacchan," Izuku says, grateful no one will see his blush. His kneading gets just a bit more frantic.

"Smooth deflection," Kota says wryly. Izuku snorts. The action sends a puff of flour into the air.

"You look just like your mom."

And so it goes on like that. Kota continues making off-hand comments while Izuku works, and Izuku scrambles a response that doesn't fill his eyes with tears or knot his stomach with guilt and grief. By the time Izuku has his bread in the oven and the countertops clean, they've blown through an exhaustive amount of topics.

"I'm going to come out of the kitchen now. I need to get a shirt from my room."

"Why bother? I've been here an hour and I haven't turned to stone yet."

Izuku finds Kota to be far too flippant—almost stupidly so. He wants to cuff Kota on the back of the head for being an idiot.

"I'm dangerous, Kota. I'd never forgive myself if something bad happened," he says. He doesn't know how to make Kota understand this. He already knows the worst of what he's done. That alone should be enough to send him running for the hills. Kota is silent for a long time, and Izuku thinks he's finally got it.

"I've never seen your face, you know. It's weird. You're probably one of the only people I can stand, and I don't even know what you look like."

Izuku knows what he means. He feels similarly. Izuku hasn't had a conversation with anyone but Kota in seven years, but when he tries to conjure up what he might look like, he draws a blank. Izuku sighs, and ties the tea towel around his head.

"Can you help me? Just… guide me to the bureau over there?" Asking for help in this way bothers him. He used to have a walking cane when he was younger, but he never really had occasion to use it. His world got a lot smaller after his Quirk manifested. Whenever he did go outside, it was usually for school, and Kacchan was always with him. Kacchan has always had a presence Izuku never had to _see _to feel, and he never once allowed Izuku to stumble over a step, or run into a stationary object.

Kota puts a tentative hand on his elbow, and gently guides him across the room. Izuku gets the sense that Kota isn't really one for touching, and he feels bad for forcing this on him. Maybe he should request a cane, so things like this don't happen. He hates how surly the thought makes him. They slowly move across the room, and when Izuku's hand makes contact with the drawers on the old bureau, Kota's hand quickly disappears.

Izuku rifles through the top drawer, going by memory for what he's looking for. There's a small tin of keepsakes within, and inside it is the only picture he has of himself. The edges are frayed from years of handling. It's a photo of his first moments with Tama, on his fourth birthday, before his Quirk ruined his life and his parents' marriage. That's the last time he ever allowed anyone to take a picture of him. He knows, logically, that a picture of his eyes could never hurt anyone, but fear isn't always logical. Even now, when he takes photos to send to Kacchan, he keeps his eye out of frame. His only real attachment to this photo is that it's the only proof he has that Tama wasn't always a statue, that his dad once loved him and his mom, but he can part with it if it'll give Kota some peace of mind.

"This is the only photo I have of my face. It's old, but… well, my face now is a bit grotesque, to be honest. This is better." He holds it out for Kota, and he does nothing for so long that he almost thinks he's no longer next to him. Then, blessedly, he takes the picture from his hand.

The silence spans for what feels like a decade. That's one thing about losing his sight that he'll never get used to. There's so much nuance in silences. They're full of things he has no use for, like facial tics and body language. If Kota doesn't speak, Izuku has nothing.

"Midoriya," he says, voice low, almost breaking. Izuku can't fathom why he's so upset. "Why are you here? You should be home with all these people that love you."

Izuku thinks Kota is so upset because his parents are in the photo. He imagines Kota must think Izuku's an idiot to give up something that was forcibly taken away from him. He's not entirely wrong, either. He answers in the only way he knows how.

"It's not that simple."


End file.
